


Boxes and Bicycles

by belantana



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belantana/pseuds/belantana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 2.01 "Fifty Ships". It's October 1940, there's a thief loose in Hastings, and Sam is still looking for a place to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boxes and Bicycles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empyrean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empyrean/gifts).



"Well, it looks to me as if we're in something of a pickle," said Sam. "You see, if you shoot me, I'm afraid I'm going to drop this box marked 'fragile' and probably smash whatever's inside it."

The man with the gun twitched his lips with something not unlike amusement. "It does look as if you're struggling with it, Miss Stewart."

"It's a bit heavy," she admitted, shifting her grip.

"Why don't you put it down nice and gently on the floor? Then I can put down my gun and we can both have a strong drink and sort out this mess."

Sam eyed him suspiciously. "I think I'd rather drop it right where I'm standing."

"Then, regretfully, I would have to shoot you."

"As I was saying." Sam rubbed the sweat running down her cheek onto the shoulder of her uniform, trying to stop her heart from pounding so noisily. "Something of a pickle."

The man was definitely smiling now. That put Sam's anger back on top of her fear, where it belonged. She watched as he sat comfortably in a chair, keeping the gun and the smile pointed at her.

"And this pickle – as you so charmingly put it, Miss Stewart – how do you propose we get out of it?"

"We wait," Sam said with conviction, "for Mr Foyle."

 

\- -

 

It had started, as things seemed all too often to do, with Sam being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Couldn't sleep, Sam?"

She jumped up from the table with a start, folding her arms across her nightdress. "No sir. I mean, yes sir. I mean, no, I couldn't."

Foyle nodded, as if this were a perfectly reasonable way to answer your boss in whose kitchen you were sitting at three o'clock in the morning. "Tea?"

"Thank you sir. Shall I make a pot?"

"No, I'll make it. I think the further you are from my crockery the better, don't you?"

Sam blushed. "I _am_ sorry about that plate. I don't know what – "

Foyle smiled. "It's fine, Sam. Sit down. I'll make tea."

Sam sat, hands between her knees, but she was so very tired that the next thing she knew was the clatter of Foyle setting down the tea things and she was on her feet again in such a rush that her head spun.

"Sam!"

"Sorry sir. I – sorry."

He passed her a cup and drank his tea in silence while she got herself together and had a sip. The tea was milky and very sweet. It was unlike Mr Foyle, she thought, to waste rations like that. She was absurdly grateful for it.

"How long have you not been able to sleep?" he asked presently.

"Well, a little while, sir. I rather thought it was lying on that plank at the station that was keeping me awake, but your back room is much more comfortable, so it seems it isn't that."

"Mm," Foyle agreed. "It isn't that."

Sam drank some more tea. Oh, she was so tired, and very cross with herself for being so silly. It wasn't as if the Germans were going to drop a bomb on Mr Foyle's house just because she hadn't been killed by the one they dropped on her own, and if they were, it wasn't as if her being awake and worrying was going to do anything about it. She wanted to ask Mr Foyle what it was keeping _him_ awake, but she'd intruded enough as it was.

When she finished her tea, she rinsed the cups in the sink, being extra careful not to break anything. She didn't think she'd ever felt so tired in her life. Perhaps she should try sleeping again.

Foyle was still sitting in his chair, staring into space.

"Goodnight sir," she said hesitantly.

He stirred, and gave her a little nod. "Goodnight, Sam."

If someone had wanted to drop a bomb on Sam at half-past three, she wouldn't have cared, because she was finally asleep.

 

\- -

 

The sun was streaming through the curtains when she woke. Ice-cream, she thought, shortbread, bacon. For one blissful moment Sam was happy, then she remembered that there was a war on which had put paid to supplies of ice-cream, shortbread and bacon. The abject disappointment of this realisation was what had woken Sam every morning of 1940 so far.

It wasn't summer any longer, she remembered, and nor was it a Sunday. It was a Wednesday in October, so why was there sun streaming in the window?

Sam leapt out of bed. First she'd broken Mr Foyle's crockery, then she'd drunk most of his milk and sugar ration in her tea in the middle of the night, and now she had _overslept_. Oh, could she not do a thing right! She dressed hurriedly and ran into the hall still pinning her hair. "Mr Foyle?"

The house was empty. The clock on the mantelpiece said half past nine. She peered out of the window and saw that the police car was no longer where she'd parked it last night. Mr Foyle must have let her sleep in and got someone else to drive him to the station.

"Honestly," she muttered to herself as she collected her cap and gloves, "if you were in charge of the country then Jerry would be sitting in the Houses of Parliament while you were still dreaming about bacon."

Foyle and Milner were putting on their coats when she arrived at the station, flushed and dishevelled from her bicycle ride.

"Ah, Sam. Sleep well?"

"Oh _sir_ , you should fire me on the spot."

"Alternately," said Foyle with some humour, "you could drive us to Hamersley House. Sir Morris Winterfold arrived from London yesterday and has some grievances he wishes to air."

"The new man from the War Office?" Sam asked, once she'd seen the bicycle away and was back in familiar territory behind the wheel of the Wolseley. "How could he have grievances with the police after only arriving yesterday?"

"One wonders," Foyle said mildly.

"It's about a theft," Milner explained. "Which means the grievance may not necessarily be with us."

"It usually ends up with us, though, in the case of the War Office."

The car engine made an unpleasant sound before catching, making Sam frown. "Who drove you this morning Mr Foyle, may I ask?"

"You aren't the only driver at my disposal, Sam."

"It wasn't Winters, was it sir? Only I wouldn't trust him not to have broken something."

"It seems to be working well enough," said Foyle, uncharacteristically vague.

Sam shut her mouth when she realised that it was her fault if Winters had been driving in the first place. Nevertheless, she would find him when they got back to the station and have a stern word with him about the correct way to treat a clutch pedal.

"So," she said brightly, to change the subject. "What's been stolen?"

She couldn't be sure but it looked as if Milner was smiling at her from the back seat. "A car," he said. "Sir Morris Winterfold's car."

 

\- -

 

They met Sir Morris in the grounds of Hamersley House, having been told that the War Office business underway inside was above top secret. Sam wondered briefly where they would have met had it been raining, and concluded that it would probably have been in the rain.

"It's almost commendable, Foyle, the speed with which you've knocked flat the reputation London Constabulary went to such pains to construct for you. Tripping over their own cliches to sing your praises, they were, and if I am glad of one thing in this whole sorry affair it is that I now know, as I have _long suspected_ , that London Constabulary wouldn't know their elbows from each other's grandmothers' arses, if I may speak so boorishly in front of the _lady_."

Sam, standing by the car, bristled at the remark.

"A brazen theft, on my very first night in Hastings!" Sir Morris Winterfold continued, rocking back on his heels and addressing the sky to accentuate how very seriously he took this event. "What is the point, one may ask, of bothering at all? At least the Germans would instil a little _discipline_ in the region, hmm?"

There was a theatrical edge to his indignation which gave Sam the idea that it was mainly for sport. It certainly wasn't the first time that she had encountered men high up in government or social standing who found it entertaining to throw their weight around in front of the police.

"I want it to be known that I am holding _you_ personally responsible until such time as this contumelious thief is caught, tried and hung."

"Well sir," said Foyle, taking in the grand facade and sweeping grounds of the house the War Office had requisitioned, with a half-smile that made Sir Morris narrow his eyes in anger, "I assure you my officers will do all they can to solve this case, but I'm afraid that theft is not a capital crime in these parts."

"I am not talking about _theft_ , I am talking about treason, Foyle! I am talking about _criminal insolence_ in a time of war; I am talking about obstructing vital governmental business. Now if that isn't a capital crime then perhaps we'd better let old Adolf have a swing at running things, don't you agree? Do you think anyone has dared steal Hitler's car, Foyle?"

"I cannot possibly imagine, sir, why anyone would compare you to the Führer."

Sir Morris fixed Foyle with a narrow glare. "Find my car, Mr Foyle," he said, dangerously low, "or you will find out exactly why."

With that threat he stalked back to the house, leaving Foyle to raise an eyebrow at Sam. She bit her lip to stop from smiling.

Milner approached, having finished interviewing Winterfold's driver. "Any leads?" Foyle asked.

"A few," said Milner, shutting his notebook. "The car was in the old stables behind the house, so anyone could have got in without being seen, and driven away down the back lane. The cook reports hearing an engine at around midnight, but can't be sure."

"Well, let's not be in too much of a hurry to chase it up, hmm?"

"I expect you've already worked it out, sir," Sam said. "Thief and all."

"Not at all. He just wasn't very polite."

"He's been knighted by the King," said Milner. "You know sir, you can't impose your standards of politeness on the rest of the country just because there's a war on."

"All the more reason to try, I would think."

"Hang on a minute," Sam said, bending down to examine the gravel of the driveway. "Look here. Oil stains."

"You mean the thief drove the car down here in front of everyone's noses?" Milner asked.

"Maybe. No, it looks like – " Sam broke off, having followed the trail back to the police car. "It _was_ Winters, wasn't it sir?" she asked in dismay. "Oh, I'm never sleeping again."

 

\- -

 

"Found anything yet?" Milner asked that afternoon.

Sam wrinkled her nose. Sergeant Rivers had roped her into helping file reports the moment they returned to the station, and she had only just found time for a cup of tea and her interminable search of a room for rent. The tea was weak and black and only served to make her hunger sharper.

"Room available in exchange for cooking, cleaning, gardening, minding small child, and keeping accounts for local business. I don't think I'd have much time left for driving Mr Foyle, do you?"

Milner glanced at the advertisement. "Mrs Hill's place?"

"Yes, she's running the shop all on her own now her two boys have signed up. I do feel sorry for her, but it doesn't make me more inclined to be her slave."

Milner smiled. "Where are you staying at the moment?"

Sam coloured. "Oh, a friend." She guessed that Milner knew very well it was Foyle, but had no intention of breaking her word – she hadn't told Foyle about the night she'd almost spent at Milner's, after all.

"Say, have you found Sir Morris's car thief yet? You've had all day."

"We haven't, but we have found the car. It was run into a wall outside the undertaker's, smashed up quite impressively. Mr Foyle says not to waste any more time on it, but I'm still intrigued."

"About what?"

"Well, how did it get there, for a start. It went missing from Sir Morris's garage well after blackout and crashed on the other side of town before dawn. It was spotted once by the Home Guard and it was travelling at quite a speed but showing no light."

"Did no one see who was driving it?"

"No, the undertaker's in Croydon for the week visiting his mother." Milner checked the time. "He should be back by now, actually. We should pay a visit, see if anything's been stolen."

Sam was all too pleased to give up her fruitless search for lodgings, and to avoid returning to Sergeant Rivers' filing cabinet. There was bound to be something interesting turn up at the undertaker's. Perhaps a mysterious body if they were lucky.

As it turned out, they weren't, but something _had_ been stolen.

"The hearse?" Milner asked. "Was there anything in it?"

"Any _one_ , you mean?" The undertaker smiled to show it was a joke, but otherwise looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment. "No, I've been away, you see. Don't take no jobs when I know I'm going to be away. Leaving the stiffs lying around the place is unprofessional, Sergeant Milner."

"Of course." Milner glanced at Sam. "The keys were in the car?"

"Always keep 'em in the glovebox." Another sad smile. "My Hattie's always telling me, some ne'r-do-good's going to come around and take it, and I say, love, who would want to steal a hearse?" He looked between Milner and Sam as if expecting them to have the answer.

"Well Mr Thomas, we'll do our best to find out," Milner said.

 

\- -

 

"What I'm interested to know," said the man with the gun, "is what you made of it down at your little station. You must have had _some_ misguided idea of what was going on when the hearse went missing."

Sam fixed him with her best glare, and lifted the box a fraction higher. The man with the gun smiled indulgently at her threat, but Sam noticed that he tensed a little, too. Whatever was in the box was terribly important to him.

"Come on, Miss Stewart, where's the harm in answering? I'm only trying to make a little conversation before your arms get tired and we can end this little standoff sensibly."

Sam's arms had surpassed the definition of tired ten minutes ago. The box was made of rough timber, and the splinters bit into her hands. Perhaps conversation would keep her mind off it. "Why don't you tell _me_ what was going on, seeing as you'll have to be explaining yourself to Mr Foyle soon enough."

The man laughed. After a moment he affected a high tremulous voice, protesting innocence. "Oh Mr Foyle sir, but I didn't mean to steal anything, I was only borrowing! I couldn't help myself! I always returned the cars right back where I found them!"

"That's a lie," said Sam. "You left the hearse run into a tree in a country lane, and you left the tractor out of petrol a street away from where you stole Mr Farradale's old Ford, and – "

"Hmm, it has got a trifle out of hand, hasn't it?"

"That's a way of putting it."

"I'm not sure why I'm telling you this, Miss Stewart, but the odd truth of it is I _did_ mean to put everything back where I found it once I'd finished my game, like a good little boy. The problem was that something always went wrong on the way to necessitate borrowing something else."

Sam was unimpressed. The man sighed.

"I get _bored_ , Miss Stewart. I like to drive fast, and I'm partial to a little adventure. Can anyone really blame me, in times like these?"

Sam adjusted her glare and her numb hands, and wished for the thousandth time that Mr Foyle would hurry up.

 

\- -

 

In truth, they had spoken very little about the motive behind the thefts, because Foyle had become distracted with a more interesting case.

"It's easy enough," he interrupted, when Milner was in the middle of reporting on the fifth theft. "We just wait until the next vehicle is reported stolen, and then we'll find the one before it. Sooner or later the thief will get bored."

"Or run out of cars," Sam put in. "Or petrol."

"I'm just worried he'll run over somebody," Milner said. "There are always people out and about after blackout, and driving with no lights – "

"You'd best catch him then." Foyle picked up his hat. "I'm off to meet a friend. I'm getting a lift, so you needn't stick around, Sam, I won't be back this afternoon."

"Sir?"

For a moment it looked as if Foyle was going to leave without explaining. "I've had a call from an old friend who's working at the DSIR," he said eventually. "He wouldn't explain on the phone, but it sounded rather urgent."

"DSIR, sir?" asked Sam hopefully, because if there wasn't a murder to solve there might as well be something with a mysterious-sounding acronym.

"Department of Scientific and Industrial Research," Milner explained once Foyle had left. "They do things like measure wind speed and test taxi-meters, I think."

"Oh," said Sam, dejected. "It sounds more interesting than a car thief, at any rate."

 

\- -

 

The Wolseley was still leaking oil. There was a delay in getting the parts what with Sir Morris's car still being repaired, every other vehicle in town forming a line behind, and a war on top of it all. Oil wasn't yet rationed, but Sam couldn't help thinking of all the more worthy recipients as she topped up the engine yet again.

At least she had remembered how to sleep at night, and after a week in Foyle's back room she finally had success in her search for lodgings. Well, at least something good had happened. She would take it as a reminder to stop being a grump start being grateful for the good many things she had to be grateful for.

Sam knocked on the door of Foyle's office, which had been shut all morning. "Yes," he muttered.

"Mr Foyle, I wanted to let you know that I shan't be bothering you much longer. There's a room available tomorrow just across town."

"Well, that's good news, Sam. Will you need time to pack your things?"

"I'm afraid I don't have many things sir," Sam said cheerily. "Thanks to Jerry. I'll just take the car after work tomorrow if that's all right."

"That's fine."

"What was the meeting about, sir?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your friend in the Department of Science and things. It wasn't a new case, was it?"

Foyle put down his papers, straightening his back tiredly. "No, I don't know what it was actually. He was about to tell me, then made a great show of remembering about the Official Secrets Act. He spent the rest of the meeting talking about his golf handicap."

"Oh I see." Sam tried not to sound too disappointed. Foyle had made clear on past occasions that her employment as a driver did not extend to employment as an amateur detective, but that usually meant a curt refusal to answer her questions rather than an outright lie. "What are you working on then?"

There were a lot more papers on Foyle's desk than usual. He turned the one he had been reading face-down on the others. "He mentioned something about the DSIR being a lot of absent-minded boffins. I'm looking in to it."

"Looking in to... absent-minded boffins, sir?"

"Absent-minded people misplace things," Foyle said with impeccable logic. "Therefore, I'm looking through recent records of things being misplaced."

"What sort of things?"

Foyle gave her the expression of long-suffering exasperation with which Sam had become quite familiar. Well, it didn't hurt to try, she thought. "Anyway sir, you've been awfully kind to have me to stay. Let me cook you dinner again tonight."

"Do you promise not to ask me any more questions?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you promise not to break any plates?"

Sam saluted with a smile. "On my life, Mr Foyle."

 

\- -

 

Ice-cream, thought Sam, mustn't be too hard to make herself. All she'd need would be cream, sugar, a very cold day, and... oh, blast. Blast! It was her last morning as Mr Foyle's guest and she'd overslept again.

The car was gone, leaving a faint trail of oil. Sam was furious. Surely Mr Foyle hadn't misunderstood when she'd said Winters had nearly blown a gasket? But perhaps he really _did_ know nothing at all about engines. It appeared he'd got Winters to drive him again. It would be a miracle if they even made it as far as the station.

Sam got on her bicycle, ignoring the ominously dark clouds overhead, and arrived at the station short of breath to find it empty but for Sergeant Rivers, who was on the phone. He greeted Sam with surprise.

"Here she is now, sir. I'll hand you over."

"Oh, sir!" Sam said into the phone. "I can't believe I'm late _again_. You're going to send me back to the MTC faster than I can find my overalls."

"Calm down, Sam. It's only half seven. You aren't late."

"Oh." Sam glanced again around the empty station, and then outside, where it was starting to drizzle rain. Sergeant Rivers was chuckling in to his newspaper.

"I was called out early this morning in relation to the meeting I had the other day."

"Your friend from the Department of Whatsits?"

"Yes, although things have escalated a little beyond absent-minded boffins now. It looks like something odd is going on."

"What sort of odd?"

"Several sorts," Foyle said grimly.

"Are you in... trouble, sir?"

"I expect someone will see fit to tell me soon, if I am. I'd like you to bring the car at once; I'm afraid I'm not to say the location over the phone so you'll need to ask – "

"But sir, you don't have the car?" Sam interrupted.

"No, they sent a car for me this morning."

"Then where is it?"

Sam was too angry for words. Mr Foyle was off in the middle of the night on top-secret government business and some low thief had the audacity to steal the police car. Well, this had gone on long enough. Sam was going to put a stop to it.

Without even a goodbye to Sergeant Rivers, she jumped on her bicycle and rode back to Steep Lane. The keys were where she'd left them, but how silly she'd been to assume the car thief didn't know how to start a car without the key.

It was drizzling rain, but the oil stains on the road were still visible. Sam set off determinedly after them.

 

\- -

 

"So here we are," finished the man with the gun. "My grand getaway foiled by a leaking gasket. I would have thought the police kept their cars in better condition."

"I do," said Sam indignantly. "It's Constable Winters who isn't so careful."

The box now felt like it contained at least seven solid bricks. Sam shifted it to her hip for a moment to wipe her brow, and looked longingly at the square patch of ground where it had sat before she'd decided to investigate. It would be so easy to bend down and put it back.

"Remind me of what happens now?" the man with the gun asked lazily. He was sprawled on a chair, holding the gun as if he'd forgotten it was even there, but Sam had no doubt he'd shoot her in a second if she slipped up.

"Mr Foyle will be here soon," she said stoutly. "He'll arrest you for theft and for wasting police time. I expect you'll go to prison."

The man laughed. "I'm not sure whose time the search has been wasting, but it certainly hasn't been Foyle's. He hasn't the faintest idea who the thief is and nor does he care."

"He's a very clever man. He'll have worked it out."

"Well, it's been nearly an hour and I'm afraid I'm out of patience. Either you put the box down very gently by the time I count to ten, or I am going to shoot you and take my chances at catching it."

Sam swallowed. "Mr Foyle will be here soon," she repeated.

"Oh, _do_ stop being a fool. Your trail of oil-crumbs will have washed away in this rain. Even if Foyle does notice that you're no longer following him around like an eager puppy, do you really think he's going to work out who I am and where we are before your arms get tired?"

"Yes," said Sam, so firmly she almost believed it.

"And then _get_ here, Miss Stewart, without your good self to drive him?"

"Sam is not the only driver at my disposal, Sir Morris," said Foyle, appearing in the doorway of the old stables with a legion of armed officers.

 

\- -

 

"I don't understand."

Sam tried to take a sip of tea but her arms were still trembling from the exertion, so she decided to wait a bit longer. The box had been hurried away by the officers and she would be quite happy never to see it again.

"There's a simple explanation," said Foyle. He was sitting with Sam on a log outside the Hamersley House stables, where Sir Morris had been secreting the cars he'd borrowed before his nightly attempts to return them. "At around the same time that Sir Morris's car went missing, some absent-minded boffins misplaced something."

"You mean something was stolen from them?"

"Yes. The project it was related to has been stalled, so it was a while before the theft was confirmed, and then they spent a while longer running around in a web of secrecy afraid they would get in trouble for misplacing it. My friend calling to meet with me seems to be what alerted Military Intelligence to the affair."

"What was stolen?"

Foyle paused. "You were holding it."

"That old box? What was in it?"

"I don't know."

"Right."

Sam had another go at the tea, but her muscles had other ideas, and she set the cup down again before spilling any. "No," she added, "I'm sorry Mr Foyle, but I've spent the best part of an hour holding that box with a gun pointed at me, so I think I'd like at least to know what was in it."

Foyle glanced at her with some surprise, then smiled. "I really don't know, Sam. It's top-secret."

"Oh," she said, chastened. "Alright then. What did it have to do with Sir Morris Winterfold stealing his own car and then everybody else's?"

"That's a question I'd very much like the answer to myself."

With a concerted effort Sam managed a sip of tea. She wasn't dead, which was something, and she wasn't holding a stupidly heavy box any more, which was something else. It was hardly a satisfying end to a case, though.

"He said he meant to return the cars, but things kept happening to mean he had to steal another. I wasn't sure whether he was telling the truth, or whether he was a little bit mad. How did you work it out, sir?"

"The connection was simple to make if you knew three pieces of information – the details of the thefts in Hastings, that Sir Morris Winterfold visited the DSIR's Roads Research Laboratory on his way down from London, and what had been stolen from there. Unfortunately the scientists at the DSIR would be hard-pressed to notice a bomb dropping on their heads let alone a peculiar crime spree on the south coast, and no one saw fit to furnish me, the only possessor of both of the first two pieces of information, with the third."

There was a long silence.

"You really don't know what was in the box, sir?"

"No one's told me exactly, no."

"But you've a pretty good idea, don't you sir?"

Foyle pursed his lips and glanced towards the house, where Sir Morris's staff were huddled about. Having watched Sir Morris escorted into custody and made Sam a cup of tea, they were at a loss what to do next.

"There's been a lot of research going on at the DSIR, new technology that could help us win the war. From the little I've been able to find out about it, and from the strange things Sir Morris Winterfold got up to with this instrument in his possession, I would think it's some sort of prototype to allow soldiers to see in the dark."

Sam snorted into her tea. "That's a good one."

"It is, isn't it."

The conversation fell into silence again. Sam stirred the grass with her foot. Her legs ached too, come to think of it. It took a moment for her to remember that she'd ridden her bicycle all the way here.

"You don't – you don't really mean it, sir?"

"Why not? There are fairly strong rumours that the Germans are already using night-vision technology."

"I thought they just ate lots of carrots," Sam said. Really, it was ridiculous. "Seeing at night. It sounds mad. Do you really think it's possible?"

"Well, not yet, judging by the number of cars Sir Morris wrecked while playing with it."

Despite still feeling as if she shouldn't have bothered getting out of bed that morning, Sam found the tea and Mr Foyle's candour had gone a long way to making her feel better. She picked up her cap from the ground where it had fallen and tucked her hair up under it. "If they got it working it could win us the war, couldn't it sir?"

"It could win us the war," Foyle agreed. He got to his feet.

Sam thought of ice-cream again, and shortbread, and bacon. "Over by Christmas," she said with a smile.

"Perhaps."

Foyle put on his hat, looking to the remaining people from Military Intelligence who had begun to interview Sir Morris's staff. "I think someone else should drive us back to the station, and then I think you should have the rest of the day off."

"Thank you sir," said Sam, meaning it. Then she let out a little cry of despair.

"What is it?"

" _Boxes_ , Mr Foyle! I'm moving to my new lodgings tonight. I'll have to carry _boxes_."

Foyle was pretending not to smile. "Needs must, Sam," he said briskly. "There's a war on you know."

"Yes, sir," said Sam. They set off together for the house.

**Author's Note:**

> While the Germans were using night-vision technology in 1939 and the Americans later in WWII, that the British were also developing it is a small liberty I have taken with history. Any further historical or canonical errors are the fault of the author being a modern-era girl from the other side of the world who has only had the pleasure of seeing the first three series of Foyle's War. With many thanks to lost_spook for the encouragement & Britpicking. :)


End file.
